Guacamole Vignettes
by Ersatz.Love
Summary: Aiming for 100 drabbles of various sizes, shapes, colors, and flavors. A little more spice couldn't hurt!
1. Hourglass

"I don't know what to tell you, Ven. I'm sorry."

Nothing in the world could make Terra feel as low as when he let Ventus down. The kid wasn't just disappointed, he was _crushed,_ and Terra couldn't bring himself to look at those big, wet eyes all over again. He turns away instead, unable to think of anything else he could say to make it better and unwilling to wrack his brain over it when he already had this much stress on him from his other duties. This was just another thing Aqua would have to deal with; she was better at it, and—

"But _Terra._"

"Look, Ven, things like this happen. We'll go next week, okay?"

"That's what you said _last time—_"

"I _know,_ but I mean it this time—"

"You _promised!_"

"_Ven,_"

Ventus took a shallow breath like that hurt him, and Terra regretted taking that tone.

"We don't have time."

He froze mid-step when Ventus grabbed his hand, and his grip was almost strong enough to hurt.

"When _will we?_"

He went quiet for the longest time, gaze never leaving the heart-shaped moon that glowed ever brighter with each minute that passed. He didn't move again until the image of it was burned behind his eyelids; he could see it even when he looked away, turning to regard Ventus with all the affection of a total stranger. A false smile pulled at his lips as he casually slid his hand out of Ventus's grasp.

"When you remember," he said slowly, reaching to cup the boy's cheek in his gloved hand. "Only then."

Ventus bit his lip, trying to read those persimmon eyes for any shred of truth, and as gently as if Xemnas could fade from an unkind touch, he ran his fingers over smooth leather and clutched. It was difficult just to look at him with his vision this hazy, and after an eternity of silence, he couldn't take it anymore. He lowered his head, almost nuzzling that hand, and let his breath go in a shaking exhale; it was only when Xemnas's thumb brushed over his cheek to wipe a tear away that he finally reacted, grasping his wrist and pushing it away from him.

"I am _so tired_ of hearing you say that."

Terra's mouth split with a startled sound, and he kept his hand raised like he wanted to reach out and stop his friend from leaving. He hesitated.

"Come on, Ven..."

"Don't call me that."

"_Ven—_"

"_Stop it._" It wasn't like Roxas to get this angry, but Terra kept pushing and pushing and _pushing_ and his faith was beginning to wear thin. As hard as those blue eyes were right then, though, he still couldn't seem to pin that blame on _Terra_ — but every reminder of _it's not his fault, he doesn't mean it_ got an answer of _it's not fair, __**it's just not fair,**_ and in his frustration he couldn't justify it anymore.

"You don't understand." Terra was addressing his back by now. "I'm only...I'm only doing what's right. What's best for us."

Roxas hesitated. _Just because __**you**__ think it's right..._

"For _all of us,_" Xemnas added.

Another eon. Ventus's shoulders slumped. "...I know."

"Then you know what must be done."

"Right...I can wait. I mean, after all..."

He turned just enough to look at Xehanort out of the corner of his vision, just enough for Xehanort to see a little gold.

"Aren't we friends?"


	2. Sacrifice

He was the first and the only person she found upon reaching those fabled shores, and he seemed so out of place there that she couldn't help but wonder if she imagined him. But he was real, as real as anyone else could be—here—and far more real than she ever could be. His smile was real, too, when he finally noticed her approach and gave her one that was equal parts warm and sad; warm like they'd already been friends forever, eyes lit up like he finally, _finally_ found someone else like him, but it strained at the corners where misery had worn him down.

He was the first to break the silence, gaze wandering back to the waves lapping at his feet.

"You too, huh?"

Xion paused, looking back out to sea; the vessel that had taken her here was gone, and for a fleeting moment the despair of separation turned tangible. She nodded, defeated, and eased down onto the sand when he made an idle gesture to the empty space beside him.

There wasn't much to be said. Both of them had made their decisions, and there was no going back now. The comfort that at least they weren't alone anymore would do nothing to ease the trauma of it; nothing in the world could erase the ache that came with looking out to sea, where, somewhere over the horizon, their friends were better now without them.

That didn't mean she couldn't wonder. She was convinced it was right; he must've been, too. And the hollowness of his too-blue eyes was haunting.

"Ventus," she whispered, after an eternity of broken conversations and _I knew someone like you, once_ and commiserating without having to say a word. "Was it worth it?"

For a moment, it seemed like he didn't hear her. Then he laughed, mirthless, and dropped his head against his arm, throat closing with the onset of tears.

"I was going to ask you the same thing."


	3. Cage

"Mornin', Chief."

Lexaeus was already used to the sight of #002 out of his cell, so it didn't surprise him to find eyepatch-and-stripes sitting in _his_ chair with his feet on _his_ desk, reading _his_ newspaper and drinking _his_ coffee—it only mildly vexed him. #002 looked utterly pleased with himself, grinning ear to ear and apparently getting as much of a kick from Lexaeus's lack of reaction as he would a vibrant one. He held the coffee mug up in something like a toast, then downed the rest of it in a gulp when the jailor simply crossed to the cell behind him and unlocked it with a jingle.

"One of these days I'm gonna get you to clap." He didn't budge when the cell door opened, despite the uncanny feel of Lexaeus' gaze at his back. "Not yet, Chief, I'm not done with the funnies."

"Two," Lexaeus said sharply, and with a roll of his remaining eye the prisoner reluctantly rose and returned to his cage, leaving the newspaper on the desk; the door was shut just as unobtrusively as it was opened, and Lexaeus took his rightful place in his own seat, ignoring the way #002 clung sulkily to the bars.

"You could at least let me read the damn paper."

The paper which was folded completely the wrong way and missing all the pages that were relevant to his interests, Lexaeus noted.

"I will allow you that privilege when you earn it," he stated simply, carefully unfolding each page and folding it again the way it was meant to be. "And you will earn it by following the rules."

Behind him, #002 scoffed, the slight brush of skin against metal signifying that he'd moved away from the bars. Oddly, there was no argumentative response; perhaps that ever-mischievous nature could be eroded after all.

That hope was dashed the second Lexaeus spared him a glance, and found him reading the very newspaper Lexaeus just folded. He couldn't avoid a double-take that time—a mistake that resulted in his ears getting assaulted with #002's roaring laughter. That reaction was as much as he'd give him, though; such antics were ultimately harmless, and the less he acknowledged them, the less #002 would do them. Or so the theory went.

"Why play by the rules when breaking them makes you do _that?_" In mere seconds, the papers were folded all wrong again. Mysteriously, Lexaeus's coffee mug was suddenly full to the brim, but Lexaeus wouldn't dare touch that. Sighing through his nose, he resigned himself to working on the ledger, having already accepted he wouldn't get to relax today.

"A record of good behavior strengthens your chances of being granted parole," he replied. His pen jumped from one side of his desk to the other just as he was reaching for it.

"Parole? As if." Then the papers returned to Lexaeus's desk, and the coffee-mug on top of them, upside-down; natural physics kept the coffee from spilling everywhere, but Lexaeus still took the precaution of lifting the ledger off the desk and into his lap.

"I can leave whenever I damn well please."

"What's stopping you?"

#002 sniffed sharply at that, and when he failed to answer immediately, Lexaeus counted it as a small victory. Of course, every victory was inevitably followed by more mischief, proven when Lexaeus next blinked and found #002 perched on the edge of his desk, smirking coyly and hideously with the jagged scar that gnarled one side of his mouth.

"Well," he drawled, "_you're_ still here."


	4. Watercolors

Every time he visited, one of her crayons would disappear.

Namine didn't think much of it at first, imagining they must have fallen into the void that exists beneath every child's bed, but once they started disappearing from plain sight she thought something must be wrong. She confronted him about it-politely, of course-only to get a dumbfounded look and a _who, me? Couldn't be! Hey, listen to this..._ in response. It seemed like it would just be another bother, something she had to endure but couldn't do anything about-until one morning she found a row of teacups on her desk, each filled with a different color.

"Whatcha got there, doodlebug?"

Like he didn't have _anything_ to do with it.

She'd already found a use for the colors. They stuck to paper as well as crayon, and only smudged when wet, but they just didn't _listen_ to her like crayons did; they wandered all over the pages, mixed and mingled and were...well, they were just _rude!_

"There's not much I can do with th-"

The twang of strings tuning interrupted her. The tip of her paintbrush twitched.

"Are you kiddin'?" Demyx chimed from somewhere out of her sight. "There's nothing you _can't_ do with it."

Then the colors began to dance, rainbow beads pooling together and bouncing and stretching and quivering to the rhythm of a playful tune; she shoved the page away at first, squealing like it had just become a caterpillar, but the kaleidoscope of swaying palms and shifting seas drew her close. Her eyes had never been so full of wonder as when the boys she drew started running across the shimmering sands.


End file.
